University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.

MISS EARL, you promised that as soon as I finished
the `Antiquary' you would read me a description
of the spot which Sir Walter Scott selected
for the scene of his story. We have read
the last chapter: now please remember your promise.”

“Felix, in your hunger for books you remind me of the
accounts given of cormorants. The `Antiquary' ought to
satisfy you for the present, and furnish food for thought
that would last at least till to-morrow; still, if you exact
an immediate fulfilment of my promise, I am quite ready to
comply.”

Edna took from her work-basket a new and handsomely-illustrated
volume, and read Bertram's[1] graphic description
of Auchmithie and the coast of Forfarshire.

Finding that her pupils were deeply interested in the
“Fisher Folk,” she read on and on; and when she began
the pathetic story of the widow at Prestonpans, Hattie's
eyes widened with wonder, and Felix's were dim with
tears:

“We kent then that we micht look across the sea; but
ower the waters would never blink the een that made sunshine
around our hearths; ower the waters would never
come the voices that were mair delightfu' than the music o'
the simmer winds, when the leaves gang dancing till they
sang. My story, sir, is dune. I hae nae mair tae tell. Sufficient

and suffice it till say, that there was great grief at
the Pans—Rachel weeping for her weans, and wouldna be
comforted. The windows were darkened, and the air was
heavy wi' sighin' and sabbin'.”

The governess closed the book, laid it back in her basket,
and raising the lid of the piano, she sang that sad, wailing
lyric of Kingsley's, “The Three Fishers.”

It was one of those rare and royal afternoons late in August,
when summer, conscious that her reign is well-nigh
ended, gathers all her gorgeous drapery, and proudly robes
the world in regal pomp and short-lived splendor. Pearly
cloud islets, with silver strands, clustered in the calm blue
of the upper air; soft, salmon-hued cumulus masses sailed
solemnly along the eastern horizon — atmospheric ships
freighted in the tropics with crystal showers for thirsty
fields and parched meadows—with snow crowns for Icelandic
mountain brows, and shrouds of sleet for mouldering
masts, tossed high and helpless on desolate Arctic cliffs.
Restless gulls flashed their spotless wings, as they circled
and dipped in the shining waves; and in the magic light of
evening, the swelling canvas of a distant sloop glittered
like plate-glass smitten with sunshine. A strong, steady
southern breeze curled and crested the beautiful, bounding
billows, over which a fishing-smack danced like a gilded
bubble; and as the aged willows bowed their heads, it
whispered messages from citron, palm, and orange groves,
gleaming far, far away under the white fire of the Southern
Crown.

Strange tidings these “winged winds” waft over sea
and land; and to-day listening to low tones that travelled
to her from Le Bocage, Edna looked out over the everchanging,
wrinkled face of ocean, and fell into a reverie.

Silence reigned in the sitting-room; Hattie fitted a new
tarlatan dress on her doll, and Felix was dreaming of Prestonpans.

The breeze swept over the cluster of Tuscan jasmine,

and the tall, snowy phlox nodding in the green vase on the
table, and shook the muslin curtains till light and shadow
chased each other like waves over the noble Longhi engraving
of Raphael's “Vision of Ezekiel,” which hung just
above the piano. After a while Felix took his chin from the
window-sill, and his eyes from the sparkling, tossing water,
and his gaze sought the beloved countenance of his governess.

Her dress was of white mull, with lace gathered around
the neck and wristbands; a delicate fringy fern-leaf was
caught by the cameo that pinned the lace collar, and around
the heavy coil of hair at the back of her head, Hattie had
twined a spray of scarlet tecoma.

Save the faint red on her thin, flexible lips, her face was as
stainless as that of the Hebrew Mary, in a carved ivory
“Descent from the Cross,” which hung over the mantel-piece.

As the boy watched her he thought the beautiful eyes
were larger and deeper, and burned more brilliantly than
ever before; and the violet shadows beneath them seemed
to widen day by day, telling of hard study and continued
vigils. Pale and peaceful, patiently sad, without a trace
of bitterness or harshness, her countenance might have
served as a model for some which Ary Scheffer dimly saw
in his rapt musings over “Wilhelm Meister.”

“Oh! yonder comes mamma and—Uncle Grey! No;
that is not my uncle Grey. Who can it be? It is—Sir
Roger!”

Hattie ran out to meet her mother, who had been to
New-York; and Felix frowned, took up his crutches, and
put on his hat.

Edna turned and went to her own room, and in a few

moments Hattie brought her a package of letters, and a
message from Mrs. Andrews, desiring her to come back to
the sitting-room.

Glancing over the directions the governess saw that all
the letters were from strangers, except one from Mrs. Murray,
which she eagerly opened. The contents were melancholy
and unexpected. Mr. Hammond had been very ill
for weeks, was not now in immediate danger, but was confined
to his room; and the physicians thought that he
would never be well again. He had requested Mrs. Murray
to write, and beg Edna to come to him, and remain in his
house. Mrs. Powell was in Europe with Gertrude and Gordon,
and the old man was alone in his home, Mrs. Murray
and her son having taken care of him thus far. At the
bottom of the page Mr. Hammond had scrawled almost
illegibly: “My dear child, I need you. Come to me at
once.”

Mrs. Murray had added a postscript to tell her that if
she would telegraph them upon what day she could arrange
to start, Mr. Murray would come to New-York for
her.

Edna put the letter out of sight, and girded herself for a
desperate battle with her famishing heart, which bounded
wildly at the tempting joys spread almost within reach.
The yearning to go back to the dear old parsonage, to the
revered teacher, to cheer and brighten his declining days;
and, above all, to see Mr. Murray's face, to hear his voice
once more, oh! the temptation was strong indeed, and the
cost of resistance bitter beyond precedent. Having heard
incidentally of the reconciliation that had taken place, she
knew why Mr. Hammond so earnestly desired her presence
in a house where Mr. Murray now spent much of his time;
she knew all the arguments, all the pleadings to which she
must listen, and she dared not trust her heart.

“Enter not into temptation!” was the warning which
she uttered again and again to her own soul; and though

she feared the pastor would be pained, she felt that he
would not consider her ungrateful—knew that his warm,
tender heart would understand hers.

Though she had always studiously endeavored to expel
Mr. Murray from her thoughts, there came hours when his
image conquered; when the longing, the intense wish to
see him was overmastering; when she felt that she would
give ten years of her life for one long look into his face, or
for a picture of him.

Now when she had only to say, “Come!” and he would
be with her, she sternly denied her starving heart, and instead
of bread gave it stones and serpents.

She took her pen to answer the letter, but a pang which
she had learned to understand told her that she was not
now strong enough; and, swallowing some medicine which
Dr. Howell had prescribed, she snatched up a crimson
scarf and went down to the beach.

The serenity of her countenance had broken up in a fearful
tempest, and her face writhed as she hurried along to
overtake Felix. Just now she dreaded to be alone, and yet
the only companionship she could endure was that of the
feeble cripple, whom she had learned to love, as woman
can love only when all her early idols are in the dust.

“Wait for me, Felix!”

The boy stopped, turned, and limped back to meet her,
for there was a strange, pleading intonation in her mournfully
sweet voice.

“What is the matter, Miss Earl? You look troubled.”

“I only want to walk with you, for I feel lonely this
evening.”

“Miss Earl, have you seen Sir Roger Percival?”

“No, no; why should I see him? Felix, my darling,
my little brother! do not call me Miss Earl any longer.
Call me Edna. Ah child! I am utterly alone; I must
have somebody to love me. My heart turns to you.”

She passed her arm around the boy's shoulders and

leaned against him, while he rested on his crutches and
looked up at her with fond pride.

“Edna! I have wanted to call you so since the day I
first saw you. You know very well that I love you better
than every thing else in the world. If there is any good in
me, I shall have to thank you for it; if ever I am useful, it
will be your work. I am wicked still; but I never look at
you without trying to be a better boy. You do not need
me—you who are so great and gifted; whose writings
every body reads and admires; whose name is already celebrated.
Oh! you can not need any one, and, least of all, a
poor little helpless cripple! who can only worship you, and
love the sound of your voice better than all the music that
ever was played! If I thought that you, Miss Earl—
whose book all the world is talking about—if I thought
you really cared for me—O Edna! Edna! I believe my
heart would be too big for my poor little body!”

“Felix, we need each other. Do you suppose I would
have followed you out here, if I did not prefer your society
to that of others?”

“Something has happened since you sang the `Three
Fishers' and sat looking out of the window an hour ago.
Your face has changed. What is it, Edna? Can't you
trust me?”

“Yes. I received a letter which troubles me. It announces
the feeble health of a dear and noble friend, who
writes begging me to come to him, and nurse and remain
with him as long as he lives. You need not start and
shiver so—I am not going. I shall not leave you; but it
distresses me to know that he has asked an impossible
thing. Now you can understand why I did not wish to be
alone.”

She leaned her cheek down on the boy's head, and both
stood silent, looking over the wide heaving waste of immemorial
waters.

A glowing orange sky overarched an orange ocean, which

slowly became in turn ruby, and rose, and violet, and pearly
gray, powdered with a few dim stars. As the rising waves
broke along the beach, the stiffening breeze bent the spray
till it streamed like silvery plumes; and the low musical
murmur swelled to a monotonous moan, that seemed to
come over the darkening waters like wails of the lost from
some far, far “isles of the sea.”

Awed by the mysterious solemnity which ever broods
over the ocean, Felix slowly repeated that dirge of Tennyson's,
“Break, break, break!” and when he commenced
the last verse, Edna's voice, low and quivering, joined his.
As if evoked from his lonely storm-lashed lair, Varuna
reared his head against the amber west, and shook his
snowy foam-locks on the evening wind, and roared; while
dim, weird, vast, and mystically blue as Egypt's Amon, the
monstrous outline writhed in billowy folds along the entire
horizon.

Out of the eastern sea, up through gauzy cloud-bars, rose
the moon, round, radiant, almost full, shaking off the mists,
burnishing the waves with a ghostly lustre.

The wind rose and fluttered Edna's scarlet scarf like a
pirate's pennon, and the low moan became a deep, sullen,
ominous mutter.

“There will be a gale before daylight; it is brewing
down yonder at the south-west. The wind has veered since
we came out. There! did you notice what a savage snort
there was in that last gust?”

Felix pointed to the distant water-line, where now and
then a bluish flash of lightning showed the teeth of the
storm raging far away under southern constellations, extinguishing
for a time the golden flame of Canopus.

“Yes, you must go in, Felix. I ought not to have kept
you out so long.”

Reluctantly she turned from the beach, and they had proceeded
but a few yards in the direction of the house when
they met Mrs. Andrews, and her guest

“Felix, my son! Too late, too late for you! Come in
with me. Miss Earl, as you are so fond of the beach, I
hope you will show Sir Roger all its beauties. I commit
him to your care.”

She went toward the house with her boy, and as Sir
Roger took Edna's hand and bent forward, looking eagerly
into her face, she saw a pained and startled expression cross
his own.

“Miss Earl, did you receive a letter from me, written immediately
after the perusal of your book?”

“Yes, Sir Roger, and your cordial congratulations and
flattering opinion were, I assure you, exceedingly gratifying,
especially as you were among the first who found any
thing in it to praise.”

“You have no idea with what intense interest I have
watched its reception at the hands of the press, and I think
the shallow, flippant criticisms were almost as nauseous to
me as they must have been to you. Your book has had a
fierce struggle with these self-consecrated, red-handed, high-priests
of the literary Yama; but its success is now established,
and I bring you news of its advent in England,
where it has been republished. You can well afford to exclaim
with Drayton:

The numerous assaults made upon you reminded me constantly
of the remarks of Blackwood a year or two since:
`Formerly critics were as scarce and formidable, and consequently
as well known, as mastiffs in a country parish;
but now no luckless traveller can show his face in a village
without finding a whole pack yelping at his heels.' Fortunately,
Miss Earl, though they show their teeth, and are
evidently anxious to mangle, they are not strong enough to
do much harm. Have you answered any of these attacks?”

“No, sir. Had I ever commenced filling the sieve of the
Danaides, I should have time for nothing else. If you will
not regard me as exceedingly presumptuous, and utterly
ridiculous by the comparison, I will add that, with reference
to unfavorable criticism, I have followed the illustrious
example of Buffon, who said, when critics opened their
batteries, `Je n'ai jamais répondu à aucune critique, et je
garderai le même silence sur celle-ci.'”

“But, my dear Miss Earl, I see that you have been accused
of plagiarizing. Have you not refuted this statement?”

“Again I find Buffon's words rising to answer for me,
as they did for himself under similar circumstances, `Il
vaut mieux laisser ces mauvaises gens dans l'incertitude!'
Moreover, sir, I have no right to complain, for if it is necessary
in well-regulated municipalities to have inspectors of
all other commodities, why not of books also? I do not
object to the rigid balancing—I wish to pass for no more
than I weigh; but I do feel inclined to protest sometimes,
when I see myself denounced simply because the scales are
too small to hold what is ambitiously piled upon them, and
my book is either thrown out pettishly, or whittled and
scraped down to fit the scales. The storm, Sir Roger, was
very severe at first—nay, it is not yet ended; but I hope, I
believe I have weathered it safely. If my literary bark
had proved unworthy, and sprung a leak and foundered, it
would only have shown that it did not deserve to live; that
it was better it should go down alone and early, than when
attempting to pilot others on the rough unknown sea of
letters. I can not agree with you in thinking that critics
are more abundant now than formerly. More books are
written, and consequently more are tabooed; but the history
of literature proves that, from the days of Congreve,

After all, it can not be denied that some of the best portions
of Byron's and Pope's writings were scourged out of
them by the scorpion thongs of adverse criticism; and the
virulence of the Xenien Sturm waged by Schiller and
Goethe against the army of critics who assaulted them, attests
the fact that even appreciative Germany sometimes
nods in her critical councils. Certainly I have had my share of
scourging; for my critics have most religiously observed
the warning of `spare the rod and spoil the child;' and
henceforth, if my writings are not model, well-behaved,
puritanical literary children, my censors must be exonerated
from all blame, and I will give testimony in favor of
the zeal and punctuality of these self-elected officials of the
public whipping-post. The canons have not varied one
iota for ages; if authors merely reflect the ordinary normal
aspects of society, without melodramatic exaggeration or
ludicrous caricature, they are voted trite, humdrum, commonplace,
and live no longer than their contemporaries.
If they venture a step in advance, and attempt to lead, to
lift up the masses, or to elevate the standard of thought and
extend its range, they are scoffed at as pedants, and die unhonored
prophets; and just as the tomb is sealed above
them, people peer more closely into their books, and whisper,
`There is something here after all; great men have
been among us.' The next generation chants pæans, and
casts chaplets on the graves, and so the world rings with
the names of ghosts, and fame pours generous libations to
appease the manes of genius slaughtered on the altar of
criticism. Once Schiller said, `Against public stupidity
the gods themselves are powerless.' Since then, that same
public lifted him to the pedestal of a demi-god; now all
Germany proudly claims him; and who shall tell us where
sleep his long-forgotten critics? Such has been the history
of the race since Homer groped through vine-clad Chios,
and poor Dante was hunted from city to city. If the great
hierarchs of literature are sometimes stabbed while ministering
at the shrine, what can we humble acolytes expect
but to be scourged entirely out of the temple? We all get
our dues at last; for yonder, among the stars, Astræa laughs
at man's valuations, and shakes her infallible balance and
re-weighs us.”

She had crossed her arms on the low stone wall that inclosed
the lawn, and bending forward, the moon shone full
on her face, and her eyes and her thoughts went out to sea.
Her companion stood watching her countenance, and some
strange expression there recalled to his mind that vivid
description:

After a short silence, Sir Roger said:

“Miss Earl, I can find no triumph written on your features,
and I doubt whether you realize how inordinately
proud your friends are of your success.”

“As yet, sir, it is not assured. My next book will determine
my status in literature; and I have too much to accomplish—I
have achieved too little, to pause and look
back, and pat my own shoulder, and cry, Io triumphe! I
am not so indifferent as you seem to imagine. Praise gratifies,
and censure pains me; but I value both as mere gauges
of my work, indexing the amount of good I may or may
not hope to effect. I wish to be popular—that is natural,
and, surely, pardonable; but I desire it not as an end, but
as a means to an end—usefulness to my fellow-creatures;

I love my race, I honor my race; I believe that human
nature, sublimated by Christianity, is capable of attaining
nobler heights than pagan philosophers and infidel seers
ever dreamed of. And because my heart yearns toward
my fellow-creatures, I want to clasp one hand in the warm
throbbing palm of sinful humanity, and with the other hold
up the lamp that God gave me to carry through this world,
and so struggle onward, heavenward, with this generation
of men and women. I claim no clear Uriel vision, now and
then I stumble and grope; but at least I try to keep my
little lamp trimmed, and I am not so blind as some, who
reel and stagger in the Maremme of crime and fashionable
vice. As a pilgrim toiling through a world of sinful temptation,
and the night of time where the stars are often
shrouded, I cry to those beyond and above me, `Hold high
your lights, that I may see my way!' and to those behind and
below me, `Brothers! sisters! come on, come up!' Ah!
these steeps of human life are hard enough to climb when
each shares his light and divides his neighbor's grievous
burden. God help us all to help one another! Mecca pilgrims
stop in the Valley of Muna to stone the devil; sometimes
I fear that in the Muna of life we only stone each
other and martyr Stephen. Last week I read a lecture on
architecture, and since then I find myself repeating one of
the passages: `And therefore, lastly and chiefly, you must
love the creatures to whom you minister, your fellow-men;
for if you do not love them, not only will you be little interested
in the passing events of life, but in all your gazing at
humanity, you will be apt to be struck only by outside
form, and not by expression. It is only kindness and tenderness
which will ever enable you to see what beauty
there is in the dark eyes that are sunk with weeping, and
in the paleness of those fixed faces which the earth's adversity
has compassed about, till they shine in their patience
like dying watch-fires through twilight.' In some sort I
think we are all mechanics—moral architects, designing as
apprentices on the sands of time that, which as master-builders,
we shall surely erect on the jasper pavements of
eternity. So let us all heed the noble words.”

She seemed talking rather to herself, or to the surging
sea where her eyes rested, than to Sir Roger; and as he
noticed the passionless pallor of her face, he sighed, and
put his hand on hers.

“Come, walk with me on the beach, and let me tell you
why I came back to New-York, instead of sailing from Canada,
as I once intended.”

A half-hour elapsed, and Mrs. Andrews, who was sitting
alone on the piazza, saw the governess coming slowly up
the walk. As she ascended the steps, the lady of the house
exclaimed:

“Where is Sir Roger?”

“He has gone.”

“Well, my dear! Pardon me for anticipating you, but
as I happen to know all about the affair, accept my congratulations.
You are the luckiest woman in America.”

Mrs. Andrews put her arm around Edna's waist, but
something in the countenance astonished and disappointed
her.

“Mrs. Andrews, Sir Roger sails to-morrow for England.
He desired me to beg that you would excuse him for not
coming in to bid you good-bye.”

“Sails to-morrow! When does he return to America?”

“Probably never.”

“Edna Earl, you are an idiot! You may have any
amount of genius, but certainly not one grain of common-sense!
I have no patience with you! I had set my heart
on seeing you his wife.”

“But, unfortunately for me, I could not set my heart on
him. I am very sorry; I wish we had never met, for indeed
I like Sir Roger; but it is useless to discuss what is
past and irremediable. Where are the children?”

“Asleep, I suppose. After all, show me `a gifted woman,
a genius,' and I will show you a fool.”

Mrs. Andrews bit her lip, and walked off; and Edna
went up-stairs to Felix's room.

The boy was sitting by the open window, watching the
gray clouds trailing across the moon, checkering the face of
the mighty deep, now with shadow, now with sheen. So
absorbed was he in his communing with the mysterious spirit
of the sea, that he did not notice the entrance of the governess,
until he felt her hand on his shoulder.

“Ah! have you come at last? Edna, I was wishing for
you a little while ago, for as I sat looking over the waves,
a pretty thought came into my mind, and I want to tell
you about it. Last week, if you remember, we were reading
about Antony and Cleopatra; and just now, while I
was watching a large star yonder, making a shining track
across the sea, a ragged, hungry-looking cloud crept up, and
nibbled at the edge of the star, and swallowed it! And I
called the cloud Cleopatra swallowing her pearl!”

Edna looked wonderingly into the boy's bright eyes, and
drew his head to her shoulder.

“My dear Felix, are you sure you never heard that same
thought read or quoted? It is beautiful, but this is not the
first time I have heard it. Think, my dear little boy; try
to remember where you saw it written.”

“Indeed, Edna, I never saw it anywhere. I am sure I
never heard it either; for it seemed quite new when it
bounced into my mind just now. Who else ever thought
of it?”

“Mr. Stanyan Bigg, an English poet, whose writings are
comparatively unknown in this country. His works I have
never seen, but I read a review of them in an English book,
which contained many extracts; and that pretty metaphor
which you used just now, was among them.”

“Is that review in our library?”

“No, I am sure it is not; but you may have seen the
lines quoted somewhere else.”

“Edna, I am very certain I never heard it before. Do

you recollect how it is written in the Englishman's poem?
If you can repeat it, I shall know instantly, because my
memory is very good.”

“I think I can give you one stanza, for I read it when I
was in great sorrow, and it made an impression upon me:

“Well, Felix, you are a truthful boy, and I can trust
you!”

“I never heard the poetry before, and I tell you, Edna,
the idea is just as much mine as it is Mr. Bigg's!”

“I believe you. Such coïncidences are rare, and people
are very loath to admit the possibility; but that they do
occasionally occur, I have no doubt. Perhaps some day
when you write a noble poem, and become a shining light
in literature, you may tell this circumstance to the world;
and bid it beware how it idly throws the charge of plagiarism
against the set teeth of earnest, honest workers.”

“Edna, I look at my twisted feet sometimes, and feel
thankful that it is my body, not my mind, that is deformed.
If I am ever able to tell the world any thing, it will be how
much I owe you; for I trace all holy thoughts and pretty
ideas to you and your music and your writings.”

They sat there awhile in silence, watching heavy masses
of cloud darken sea and sky; and then Felix lifted his face
from Edna's shoulder, and asked timidly:

“Did you send Sir Roger away?”

“He goes to Europe to-morrow, I believe.”

“Poor Sir Roger! I am sorry for him. I told mamma

you never thought of him; that you loved nothing but
books and flowers and music.”

“How do you know that?”

“I have watched you, and when he was with you I never
saw that great shining light in your eyes, or that strange
moving of your lower lip, that always shows me when you
are really glad; as you were that Sunday, when the music
was so grand; or that rainy morning when we saw the picture
of the `Two Marys at the Sepulchre.' I almost hated
poor Sir Roger, because I was afraid he might take you to
England; and then, what would have become of me? Oh!
the world seems so different, so beautiful, so peaceful, as
long as I have you with me. Every body praises you, and
is proud of you, but nobody loves you, as I do.”

He took her hand, passed it over his cheek and forehead,
and kissed it tenderly.

“Felix, do you feel at all sleepy?”

“Not at all. Tell me something more about the animalcula
that cause that phosphorescence yonder—making the
top of each wave look like a fringe of fire. Is it true that
they are little round things that look like jelly—so small
that it takes one hundred and seventy, all in a row, to
make an inch; and that a wine-glass can hold millions of
them?”

“I do not feel well enough to-night to talk about animalcula.
I am afraid I shall have one of those terrible attacks
I had last winter. Felix, please don't go to bed for a while
at least; and if you hear me call, come to me quickly. I
must write a letter before I sleep. Sit here, will you, till I
come back?”

For the first time in her life she shrank from the thought
of suffering alone, and felt the need of a human presence.

“Edna, let me call mamma. I saw this afternoon that
you were not well.”

“No, it may pass off; and I want nobody about me but
you.”

Only a narrow passage divided her room from his; and
leaving the door open, she sat down before her desk to answer
Mr. Hammond's appeal.

As the night wore on, the wind became a gale; the fitful,
bluish glare of the lightning showed fearful ranks of ravenous
waves scowling over each others' shoulders; a roar as
of universal thunder shook the shore, and in the coral-columned
cathedral of the great deep, wrathful ocean
played a wild and weird fugue.

Felix waited patiently, listening amid the dread diapason
of wind and wave,for the voice of his governess. But
no sound came from the opposite room; and at last,
alarmed by the solemn silence, he took up his crutches
and crossed the passage.

The muslin curtains, blown from their ribbon fastenings,
streamed like signals of distress on the breath of the tempest,
and the lamplight flickered and leaped to the top of
its glass chimney.

On the desk lay two letters addressed respectively to
Mr. Hammond and Mrs. Murray, and beside them were
scattered half a dozen notes from unknown correspondents,
asking for the autograph and photograph of the young
author.

Edna knelt on the floor, hiding her face in the arms
which were crossed on the lid of the desk.

The cripple came close to her and hesitated a moment,
then touched her lightly:

“Edna, are you ill, or are you only praying?”

She lifted her head instantly, and the blanched, weary
face reminded the boy of a picture of Gethsemane, which
having once seen, he could never recall without a shudder.

“Forgive me, Felix! I forgot that you were waiting —
forgot that I asked you to sit up.”

She rose, took the thin little form in her arms, and whispered:

“I am sorry I kept you up so long. The pain has passed

away. I think the danger is over now. Go back to your
room,and go to sleep as soon as possible. Good-night, my
darling.”

They kissed each other and separated; but the fury of
the tempest forbade all idea of sleep, and thinking of the
“Fisher Folk” exposed to its wrath, governess and pupil
committed them to Him, who calmed the Galilean gale.